


Between Breaths (An XY Perspective)

by gimmefire



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Corsetry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gimmefire/pseuds/gimmefire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late 2010. <i>It's nothing to do with you. You're a pair of hands. And a mouth that I think will keep quiet.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Breaths (An XY Perspective)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "corset!fic" on the [](http://f1slash-kink.livejournal.com/profile)[f1slash_kink](http://f1slash-kink.livejournal.com/) meme. For reference, the style of corset used in this fic is a short hip underbust. Title nicked from the Blaqk Audio song of the [same name](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/blaqkaudio/betweenbreathsanxxperspective.html) and slightly modified. ;) Beta by [mackem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mackem).

_Singapore._

Michael Schumacher has been Nico's team mate for over nine months now, but Nico can't recall a time when Michael has ever phoned him. Not one single time. According to his phone, however, that's exactly what's happening. He frowns at the name lighting up his phone a moment longer, then answers, finding it difficult to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"Hello?"

"Nico?"

"Yes?," he responds, resisting the urge to say the obvious _well, you called me..._

"I have to ask you for a favour. Do you have a pen and paper nearby?"

Nico frowns again and looks around him, stretching for the pen and pristine pad lying on his bedside table. "What's the favour?" he asks absently, clicking the pen and drawing a squiggle on the top corner of the pad to get the ink flowing.

There's a pregnant pause. Nico is about to repeat himself – perhaps the line is bad – when Michael speaks. "I need you to collect something for me."

\------------------

Nico gives the shopkeeper a taut smile and leaves with as much stealth as he entered with, a sophisticated, gold leaf embossed bag in his hand. He scuffs through the Singaporean sidestreets, trying probably a bit too hard to affect a walk as unlike his own as possible, cap pulled low over his face. Thoughts swirl through his mind.

He's not friends with Michael, that much is obvious. They haven't grown close, they don't hang out together away from the track and they're the furthest thing from 'chummy'. They're workmates, that's it. Nico has no problem with that, and Michael seems fine with it too. All of that is what makes this so awkward. Couldn't Michael have asked Felipe to do this? Or Ross? Or Willi? Or anyone except him? Maybe this was part of some bizarre psych-out. Maybe he should call Rubens...

Once ensconced in the privacy of the lift of his opulent hotel, he parts the handles and steals a glance into the bag. Fabric, a colourful pattern, rigidness, wisps of lace. He stiffens and fixes his eyes back on the doors before him. Mere seconds pass before he's peering inside again; he reaches in cautiously, as if the contents might bite. _It's silk_ , he thinks at the first touch. _It's beautifully made_ , he thinks at the second. He flinches when the lift pings and walks stiffly out into the corridor.

It takes too damn long for Michael to answer his door.

"What were you doing?" Nico hisses when it swings open. "I get enough comments, if Lewis or Mark had come past me while I'm carrying _this_ —"

"Relax," Michael replies with a small smile, gesturing for him to come inside.

"Of course you say 'relax', you're not the one who had to go and fetch it," Nico grumbles, slinking into the safety – perhaps that's the wrong word – of Michael's room.

Nico pulls the not-particularly-covert baseball cap off his head, ruffles his hair self-consciously and holds the bag out towards Michael. _Take it_ , he thinks. _Take it so I can go._ But Michael only peers inside, and he exhales on seeing the contents. The sound is less one of wonderment and more one of relief, like a weight lifting from his shoulders. Nico finds himself leaning away from Michael.

Michael looks up at him after a few moments. He still does not take the bag. "Well, I can't put this on myself," Michael says matter-of-factly. There's even a touch of amusement in his voice, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Nico's eyes widen, his stomach swooping unpleasantly. He thinks about walking out. Bolting. This is already a very strange weekend because of Michael and he doesn't particularly want it to become any stranger. Michael looks at him expectantly. No, not quite expectantly, there's something else there - hopefulness. Nico tries not to fidget.

"W-wouldn't Felipe be better for..." he trails off as Michael shakes his head, and nothing more.

Nico feels sick. It's not disgust he feels – there are far stranger kinks in the world – but the image of Michael the German superstar, the multiple world champion, the formidable driver will not disappear from his mind. It shimmers in, stronger and stronger, throwing this Michael before him into sharp relief. This is Michael in private. This is unseen. This is intimacy. He feels like he should avert his gaze. He feels _sick_.

Michael shakes him from his thoughts with a couple of words. "Over here," he says. He's pointing to a full length mirror. Nico stares and everything swirling in his mind...shifts slightly. He's no less uncomfortable and no surer about any of this, but the introduction of a mirror—

Michael sloughs off his shirt, shakes it out and drapes it over the back of a chair as he passes it, approaching the mirror. Something about the dim, warm lighting in the room – curtains drawn, solitary lamp lit in the far corner – makes the word _intimacy_ thud into Nico's head again. He swallows and numbly trails after his team mate, the bag feeling leaden in his hand. He wonders if Michael has two glasses of scotch waiting for them, all part of some odd attempt at seduction. He's not sure if he'd be surprised by that or not.

Nico stands with his gaze directed to the carpet, embarrassment creeping up his spine and tickling at the back of his neck. "I'd like to go back to my room," he says quietly, gritting his teeth at how pathetic he sounds.

"Look," Michael responds, resting a hand on Nico's shoulder and not speaking further until the younger man lifts his reluctant gaze. There's that small smile again, as if this is nothing at all. "All you have to do is put it on me. That's really all." He smiles a little more. "If you want to use it yourself, well..."

Nico blushes furiously, pulling out of Michael's grip. Every second he's here, he feels like he's being wrong footed. Maybe he's dreaming. Maybe now he's conscious of it, he'll wake up...

Before he's really aware of it, he's reaching into the bag and taking its contents out; an underbust corset, made to measure. He holds onto it awkwardly, as if it might shatter if he moves too quickly. Michael makes an approving sort of noise and relieves him of it.

"Will it take long?" Nico finally murmurs, and he supposes that's as good as outright agreeing to this bizarreness. Michael doesn't reply, doesn't appear to be listening; he's turning the corset over in his hands, admiring it reverently. There's relief, or at least an increased relaxedness about him. Nico doesn't feel any more comfortable about this.

"It's very nice," Michael says softly, running his thumb along the boning, drawing the sturdy silk ribbon through his fingers, exploring every inch of it with a discerning touch.

Nico watches him caress the garment and looks at it properly for the first time. What he thought was simply a meaningless swirling pattern covering most of the corset is in fact hundreds of small, blood red, Chinese style dragons. Amongst them, rearing up out of the sea of red, are a sprinkling of larger dragons, these ones a shimmering gold colour. The design is so inherently Michael that Nico almost laughs aloud. "It is nice," he admits almost to himself. Michael seems to be taking his sweet time with all—

Michael twists his fingers against the ribbon suddenly, loosening it such a rough manner, so at odds with how he's been behaving so far, it makes Nico blink and lean back a little. The older man nods towards the main room, no trace of that not particularly disarming smile on his face this time. "You know, there are drinks in the bar if you want something to ease you."

"I'd rather be sober," Nico responds warily. Michael turns away from him to face the mirror and opens the corset, wrapping it around himself and beginning to fasten the front. Nico's heart races suddenly at the sight, eyebrows climbing. _This is actually happening._ He stares – he can't help it – at the sagging, criss-crossing ribbon twitching and shivering each time Michael securely hooks together a metal fastening, at the dull shine glinting from the edges of those dragons, as the corset is gradually closed. He feels eyes on him and looks up to see Michael's reflection looking back at him. He doesn't say a word, he just looks. Expectant. Nico can't pull his eyes away.

He opens his mouth, and eventually words pass them. "How..." He finds himself needing to take a breath. "How tight should I...?" He trails off and Michael doesn't answer. There's a grim focus to the older man's expression now, as though Nico, and everything else, has been shut out.

Nico pushes a hand through his hair, hesitating, and Michael finally speaks. "The quicker you do this, the quicker you can go."

Nico snorts, astounded. "I can go whenever I want!," he exclaims in annoyance. He sounds more like a sulky teenager than he intended, but that's not what's occupying his mind at that moment – who the _fuck_ does Michael think he is?!

Michael's expression doesn't even flicker. "You'd leave after going this far?"

Initially, Nico has no answer for that. It's bait, it's such an obvious piece of bait, he's smart enough to know that. Michael's words were paper thin; the intent behind them was to say _don't you want to see what happens next?_

Perhaps he's sick, but he's gradually coming to realise that he does.

"I said I _can_ go." Nico grits his teeth. When he speaks again his voice is low. "Not that I will."

The silence that follows is brittle, strained; Michael's reflection looks at him with that same grimness, with flickers of challenge, almost like he's readied himself for a fight he doesn't particularly want to be in. Nico doesn't move, not towards the other man nor away from him. The tension breaks when Michael's gaze moves from Nico's reflection to his own.

Nico scowls but for the life of him he can't make himself just walk to the door and leave. It feels rude, or disrespectful or something like that, something he can't put a name to; it _is_ still Michael standing in front of him, after all, however hard it is for him to believe. Instead, he plays his part, does as he's asked, or told, or however the hell he was convinced to do this. He moves towards Michael and reaches for the corset's ribbon, hooking his fingers through the uppermost criss-crossing section and pulling it slowly. He tries to think of it as though he's tightening his shoelaces, but the heat he can feel from Michael's tanned skin evaporates any inward attempt he makes to normalise this.

He steadily tugs at each cross of ribbon until they lie taut but not tight, then starts again from the top, hyper aware of the feeling of his knuckles brushing against the hollow of Michael's spine almost every time he hooks his fingers behind the ribbon. Briefly he speeds up, but this means he's less careful and he scratches Michael's back with an overzealous fingernail. Michael flinches, muscles in his back tensing momentarily, and Nico mumbles a cursory "Sorry," before telling himself to calm down. He takes a breath and eyes his team mate in the mirror, sees the continuing focus and calm in his demeanour, and it irks him. His hands return to the ribbon.

"So, is this a sexual thing? Are you going to get a different kind of pleasure out of this?," Nico murmurs. He lifts his chin and watches Michael's reflection. "Is that why you're having me do this? Do I make it better?"

"It's nothing to do with you," Michael replies immediately with an almost rehearsed ease, not shifting his gaze from his reflection. "You're a pair of hands. And a mouth that I think will keep quiet."

Absurdly, Nico feels stung by this. At this point he's not sure whether he should feel offended or relieved, so he settles for an uneasy mix of both and gives the ribbon a sharper tug. Michael makes a small noise in the back of his throat and shifts his footing so as not to lose his balance, and it makes the corner of Nico's lips twitch into a brief smirk.

"Are you concerned that you'll feel a 'different kind of pleasure' from this?" Michael asks, and there are just the faintest traces of mockery in his tone. Nico makes a face.

"I have no concerns at all in those terms."

"Ah, so you're comfortable with whatever you might feel?"

Realising he's not going to win this verbal sparring match, Nico clenches his jaw and falls silent, focussing on the task in hand. The sooner he's done, the sooner he's gone, after all, but curiously the nausea in his stomach has eased. He's not sure what to make of that and he's trying not to think about it.

Michael stands with his hands resting lightly at his thighs as Nico settles into a rhythm, slowly tightening the corset. The older German makes no attempt at conversation, and his earlier words – _you're a pair of hands and a mouth that I think will keep quiet_ – roll persistently around in Nico's head. He doesn't know why they're still bothering him, but they are; perhaps it's Michael's dismissiveness, his overall presumptuousness or his silence, or simply his irritating ability to get into his team mate's head with so few words. There's an urge within Nico to not keep quiet once this is over, however supremely unhelpful it would be for both of them. There's also an urge to be more than just a pair of hands, just to spite Michael. Or something.

When he's satisfied that he can't cinch the corset in much more, Nico leans back, exhaling as he looks over his handiwork. His gaze drifts downwards, following the ribbon and dimly noting the network of shadows it casts across Michael's spine, and he notices that the ribbon ends aren't level at all and for a scant moment he toys with the idea of tugging the ribbon loose and starting again. Just for a moment. He reaches for those ends and begins to tie them into a bow.

"Tighter than that," Michael says, stopping Nico in his tracks. There's a faint catch in his voice that makes Nico look up to Michael's reflection, seeing closed eyes. More of that curious focus? "Please," Michael adds, the word sounding like a formality rather than any sort of begging.

_Is this...training?_

The thought thuds into Nico like a hard slap to the back. _Is this endurance?_ Michael doesn't appear to be getting any sort of pleasure from this, certainly not anything sexual, so perhaps...no, Nico can't see what possible benefit it could have over other fitness routines. But if it isn't pleasurable and it isn't training, then why does Michael do this? Is it some form of transvestitism? Is it punishment? Is _that_ what he's finding pleasure in? Is Michael a masochist?

Nico's mind races for an answer but can find none. He wants to come right out and ask, but can't bring himself to be so crass. There's no trace within him of that uneasiness of before, only fascination. "Tighter," he murmurs distractedly, more to himself than anything, and when he returns his attention to Michael's back, he looks, _really_ looks at Michael's new shape.

It's a shape he'd normally associate with a woman, a model, perhaps; smooth, gentle slopes down his sides towards his waist, the incline easing just above his hips. There the corset curves out sharply to a lace trim where the corset ends and the waistband of Michael's low-slung jeans begin. Nico blinks and stares, unable to reconcile this sight with the strong shoulders, the definition of the shoulderblades, the muscular arms and the rest of what he knows as Michael. He lifts his hands and dumbly begins to tighten the ribbon further.

It's fortunate that Michael's eyes have remained closed, because out of the corner of Nico's eye he sees that bewildering body shape in the mirror; this combined with the question of reason for all this and he's finding it very hard to concentrate on the actual task in hand. He tugs the ribbon, almost on auto-pilot, eyes continually straying to Michael's side, following the line from his upper ribs down to his legs, those curves...

To his surprise, with fingers splayed against Michael's back, Nico manages to pull the ribbon tighter by an inch. After tying a double bow at its base, he presses his index finger against the uppermost section of ribbon, and it barely moves. He looks over Michael's shoulder at their reflections as Michael finally opens his eyes and regards himself. No hint of a smile touches his lips.

Nico, without really thinking, rests his hands on Michael's hips. Gaze fixed on the newly reshaped torso before him, he rubs his thumbs up and down the curved boning. "I didn't think," he murmurs, having to swallow halfway through his sentence. "It would look like this. It really..." he trails off and runs his hands up and down Michael's sides, feeling the more defined curve between his ribcage and hips. Michael takes shallow breaths from slightly parted lips and Nico feels them, feels the quick rise and fall, in and out, and Nico doesn't know when he moved so close to Michael but the body heat he can feel is positively electric.

Nico watches the movement of his own hands in the mirror, entranced, watches them move slowly down to Michael's pinched waist. He presses his thumbs hard against the boning and raises his eyes to see the reaction it gets. Michael's lips press together minutely and he exhales, but that's all. Nico looks back down to his hands, moving almost of their own accord. Faintly he acknowledges a desire to run a finger down ribbon-crossed skin, to have his lips skitter after, to squeeze Michael's waist until...something happens. His head feels fuzzy.

"Could you go tighter than this?" Nico hears himself saying, voice hushed.

"Not yet," Michael replies. "One day."

Nico sways on the spot, an image scoring through his mind of Michael, waist cinched breathtakingly tight, tight enough that Nico could encircle it with both hands. He doesn't even know if such a thing would be possible, but he finds himself wanting it fiercely.

Michael raises a hand and reaches back, dragging his fingers through Nico's hair, fingertips brushing along his jawline, a touch so suddenly intimate and tender that it makes Nico gasp quietly. He dips his head, lips just barely grazing the curve of Michael's bare shoulder – perhaps in instinctive reciprocation, perhaps in the hope that it would lead to more, he can't even think straight – and then the touch of Michael's hand is gone.

They watch one another in the mirror, time suspended until Michael gently pulls free of Nico's grasp.

"If you need a drink to steady yourself before you go, help yourself," the older German says softly, looking over his shoulder and downwards. Nico dazedly follows his gaze to his own hands and he sees them tremble. He frowns slightly, blinks, his trance breaking. Step back, blink again, Michael is no longer looking at him, focus back on the mirror... Nico takes another step back, feeling his face turn crimson and the stir of heat in the pit of his stomach.

He turns and flees. There can be no other description for his exit from the bedroom, from Michael's room, his cap forgotten and abandoned – _what just happened?_ – his unsteady, hurried walk down the corridor, down the stairs to his floor because he can't wait for the lift – _where have I been?_ – to his door where he can't get his keycard out fast enough – _what did I just do?_ – into the safety of his darkened, empty room. He leans his dead weight against the door once it's closed behind him, panting, mortified.

One of his trembling hands fumbles at his fly and he manages a few desperate strokes before he comes with a weak, wet moan, jerking himself off until he slides to the floor in an exhausted heap, heart hammering in his chest. When he withdraws his hand, he lies there slumped against the door, and in the weak light that spills past the edges of his curtains he stares blankly at his come-slicked palm.

Nico sleeps fitfully that night. Michael haunts his fleeting dreams.

 

_Korea._

Nico feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He pulls it out and checks the number lighting up the display. His stomach does a backflip at what he reads, but he doesn't even contemplate not answering.

"Hello?"

"Nico?"

He hesitates for a brief, anticipatory moment. "...Yes?"

"I need you to collect something for me."


End file.
